


the muse and the boxer

by quadrille



Category: Transistor (Video Game)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Game Spoilers, Pre-Canon, Vignette, Yuletide, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 16:24:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5463254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quadrille/pseuds/quadrille
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s shifting from foot-to-foot in the queue, rubbing his hands and clenching and unclenching fists to keep them warm. They’re his livelihood, after all: he’s a boxer, moonlighting as a bodyguard. Or maybe a bodyguard moonlighting as a boxer. He hasn’t exactly made up his mind yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the muse and the boxer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [etben](https://archiveofourown.org/users/etben/gifts).



> I was planning on writing something for them anyway, so decided to write up a Treat once I saw this Yuletide request on the pinch hit list. Hope you enjoy!

SUBJECT NAME: ??? [CORRUPTED DATA]  
[CORRUPTED]  
Attempting to restore…  
FAILURE

Continuing with memory reconstruction...

# # #

He’s shifting from foot-to-foot in the queue, rubbing his hands and clenching and unclenching fists to keep them warm. They’re his livelihood, after all: he’s a boxer, moonlighting as a bodyguard. Or maybe a bodyguard moonlighting as a boxer. He hasn’t exactly made up his mind yet.

(Like pretty much everything else in his life, to be honest. Hovering over the option boxes for Selection. _Still figuring things out._ )

The long line stretches down the street outside the auditorium, of men auditioning to be the one to protect the star. They’re waiting for the transport over to the arena, where they’ll square off against row after row of simulations. Trial by combat, like the old days: the powers-that-be will wait and see who does best, and that’ll be the lucky guy. Probably.

And the woman herself is standing there with them, fidgeting from one heeled foot to another, waiting for that same transport so she can watch them fight. Her hands curl into each other, pressed against the flimsy gold fabric of her evening gown. Goosebumps prickle on her skin. Evidently someone’s programmed Cloudbank to be chilly today, with a brisk breeze—something that reminds him of winter, whatever that once was like.

He breaks rank, shrugs out of his jacket, and holds it out to her wordlessly.

“Oh!” Surprise lights up Red’s face, and she stares at the jacket as if she’s forgotten what to do with it.

“You look cold,” he explains. Her hands tighten on the material, holding it close to her chest. After a pause, she concedes and squirms into the black leather, the high collar drifting at her neck. It’s warm. It’s warm from his body, too, and she can smell him at the collar, a distinctly masculine scent. Sweat and leather. 

Red looks a bit closer at the fighter. “Who are you?”

The man tries a smile. “My name’s XXX#*!@&(*!#* ERROR

ERROR

[CORRUPTED]

# # #

After one of his fights, he goes limping to the Goldbank Auditorium with every piece of his body aching. A rib, probably broken. Knuckles bruised and bleeding, seeping into the bandages that he’s wrapped and re-wrapped around his palm. A livid bruise on his face that’s going to blossom into a ringer of a black eye. He hardly looks like he belongs here, with the rich upper-crust and their credits and credits to spend on overpriced cocktails.

He slips money to the doorman and slips into the back of the auditorium, however, standing by the back wall rather than trying to take a table (he _really_ doesn’t fit in here). He watches the performance.

The boxer knows Red can’t see him here; the spotlights are on her now, and her voice weaves out into the room instead, sultry and smoky.

# # #

He brings her hot steaming tea, while drinking pitch-black coffee of his own. Red’s looking down at a stack of in-progress lyrics, with that crinkle in her forehead that he loves so much. The one that means she’s thinking and puzzling over finding the right word with the right number of syllables to jot into the song, like solving an equation.

One hand resting against the table, he presses a kiss to the top of her head and sets the tea beside her. Red instinctively leans back against him, and exhales.

# # #

There’s her voice in his ear while she drapes her arms around his neck, red hair drifting into the corner of his vision. A box of half-eaten flatbread from Junction Jan’s rests on the table, the Sea Monster cooling as they turn their attention to other things.

Red laughs when he picks her up, and laughs even harder when he accidentally collides with the coffeetable trying to find his way to the bedroom.

# # #

The knot of his tie has unraveled into a limp mess. With a _tsk_ , Red steps up on tiptoe to fix it, her fingers expertly knotting it at the boxer’s throat. He looks uncomfortable in a suit, wearing a skin that isn’t his (this is all her world, the society she’s learned to drift through, coasting on the back of her surprising fame).

“How do I look?” he asks, nervously. He’s always a little nervous when they’re seen side-by-side: aware of the differences between them, aware of how people might gossip and whisper about her too-close attachment to her bodyguard, if anyone’s noticed. Out of his league.

“Handsome as always. Don’t worry about it.” Her kiss misses his mouth, touches on the corner of his jaw instead.

# # #

_When you speak, I hear silence._

The auditorium is closed for the night, but she’s still rehearsing her latest material. She’s the last to lock up behind her, and they thought she’d be alone.

They hadn’t counted on him.

Something moves at the corner of her vision and she sees clean whites and reds and blacks, trimly-dressed men and one woman. One familiar-looking woman. Before she can even process the sight, before she can even start to jerk away from the moving blur, he leaps in front of her—the sword, flying—the boxer, a grunt of pain—

And it’s right through his gut.

Red falls to her knees, hand pressing against where the wound would have been. The blood is blurring into bits and bytes, flickering at the edges. The giant sword is still embedded in him, pinning him against the wall.

The attackers flee.

When she opens her eyes again, staggering on weak legs, she’s alone.

(Or so she thinks.)

Red where are you  
Where are you  
Where are you  
Where  
Where  
Wh

Blind panic in the darkness, squinting and struggling to see. His fear is running on a loop, over and over and over and over. His body isn’t responding; he wants to stand up, needs to fight, needs to protect her. Why the hell can’t he feel his legs? he wonders, with another stab of pain and terror.

Then, the boxer finally sees a blur of gold and black. Relief. Red. Sharp colour, her hair as bright as ever.

_Hey, is that you?_

Through strangely-fragmented vision with no depth perception, he sees her falling to her knees, leaning out and pressing her hand against—

Oh.

_Look at you_ , he marvels. _You’re alive. Me, I’m not so sure._

She reaches for the sword.

# # #

_I miss you so much_ , she scribbles on a napkin, looking down at it. The eye in the sword rolls around, exposing whites for a moment, then eventually settles. Her hand resting on the pommel of the Transistor, she can almost imagine that she feels his heartbeat beneath her palm: it skips for a moment, like a record catching, a lag in the program.

Then there’s just his voice in the back of her head, as always: weary, fond. She remembers that he used to be all solid muscle, undeniably _there_ and present and real, real, real. She wonders, vaguely, if they’ll get out of this mess. And if they do, if she’s ever going to feel his hands on her again—

_I know_ , says the voice.

# # #

“Hi.”

His face is splitting in a grin and oh, who’d have thought he’d ever feel that again, the ache of a smile as he looks at her and looks at her and her voice is the sweetest sound he’s ever heard.

The boxer has a body now, his hands are back, all familiar and calloused as he pulls her into an embrace. Her own hands curled against his chest, chin tucked in against his collar, and he’s breathing in her perfume and red hair and she’s there, and maybe it’s not the same but at least they’re together… 

“Hey.”

# # #

MEMORY RECONSTRUCTION COMPLETE


End file.
